


Mechanical Wolfpacks

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [139]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Steampunk, nominally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 23:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>clumsykisses asked for: I need steampunk Teen Wolf, like, a lot!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mechanical Wolfpacks

Inspector Stiles Stilinski had been working this case for months, slowly building leads and inching closer as the Wolfpack Gang had carried out heist after audacious heist. Stiles’ supervisors were breathing down his neck, and the press were having a field day.

“Robbers Steal Diamonds - Use Mechanical Dog to Gnaw Into Vault” the latest headline read.

Stiles had pinned that front page up in his small room next to all the rest. He wanted to catch the Wolfpack, be the first to walk into whatever workshop they had set up their lair, and put cuffs on all the criminals.

But even more, he wanted to meet the genius behind the Wolfpack’s fantastical criminal creations.

He’d seen the wreckage of one, when he’d first been called in. The Wolfpack were just starting then, still working out the kinks in their heist plans, and the mangle of cogs and an impossibly tiny steam engine, sitting in the middle of the street after tumbling off the roof of the bank it had been stealing from had stuck irrevocably in Stiles’ mind.

The Stilinski’s were officers of the law, that was a fact. But Stiles was also an inventor himself, and he wanted to meet their creator, just once, before the genius was thrown forever into a dark, dank cell.

Now it looked like he might get his chance.

He knew he should wait, wait for backup, wait for paddy wagons and paperwork. But twenty minutes before, Stiles had seen leaving the old man he knew, despite the lack of evidence, to be the bankroll behind the whole operation. His son had been with him, a nasty piece of work tied to, but never convicted of, a string of brutal attacks.

Stiles wanted to be in their lair, waiting, at home, when they returned, so as the cuffs snapped around their wrists, they knew that they were well and truly beaten.

The ground floor was locked up tight, but Stiles was a good detective because there was a little bit of criminal in him too. He walked next door and charmed his way up to the top floor. From there, a home made zip line carried him over onto the Wolfpack’s latest hideout. A skylight, loosely latched, gave easily with only a little jimmying, and Stiles slid down into the airy, dusty space of the main floor.

This building used to be a factory, but it had been empty for years. Tables had been brought out, ringing in a circle of light cast by another skylight. Their surfaces were scattered with tools and devices, cogs and wires, so much stuff that was familiar, and many things Stiles’ had heard of only in books or the Gentleman Inventor’s Periodical he subscribed to every month.

In the middle of the tables and the mess and the toys stood a man, his back to Stiles, his head bowed over his work. Small sparks scattered around him as Stiles’ noiselessly eased closer. As Stiles’ stepped into the puddle of sunlight, the man straightened. He was only a fraction taller than Stiles, but a little broader, and Stiles instinctively squared his shoulders and planted his feet, ready.

The inventor, for this surely was the genius behind the mechanical hound, lifted his head, almost sniffing the air. “You’re not an Argent,” he said, never turning.

Stiles dug in his pocket for his badge. “Inspector Stilinski, City Central Police.”

The man turned, and Stiles’ familiar ramble of rights fell silent. The sunlight caught the flecks in his eyes, and even the smudges of grease and soot across his brow, smeared by a casual hand wiping away the sweat, did not detract from the man at all. “Police?” he said, smiling. 

Stiles frowned. Rarely were criminals pleased to see his badge. “Yes. Inspector Stilinski,” he tried again.

The man slumped as if in relief. “Oh thank goodness.”

Stiles risked another half-step closer. There was a wrench on the table nearest his left hand, perhaps it might be worth picking it up now. Something was definitely off. “You seem rather glad to see me.”

The man looked right at Stiles, then let his gaze drop to his feet. As Stiles followed his gaze, the man lifted his leg. A heavy, silver manacle was clamped around his ankle, unbreakable chain snaking off into the darkness. “Given that I’ve been their hostage for the last six months, yes. Yes I am pleased to see you.”


End file.
